Today was our fam damily reunion. I got to see all of the people I normally only see at funerals and their kids, and their kids, and their kids.
My 2nd cousin, Shannon, and I were talking about how our children, his two girls, Sydney and Regan, were playing with Nate and how… damn, that used to be us. Although I believe I had seen Shannon since our last family reunion over 10 years ago, I was not prepared for how deep his voice was or the fact he had two little ones. Even worse, what a piece of crap his hopefully-soon-to-be-ex-wife is.
He was telling me how she had him arrested in front of his daughters on a trumped up domestic violence charge, how they had her on videotape locking the girls out of the house and the oldest, Syd, having to use the bathroom in the yard because she refused to open the door, no one being home when Syd gets home from school, and she’s tested positive for meth, etc. etc. Yet… they don’t have enough evidence to support a neglect and abuse petition.
Exactly what does it take???
Syd can’t be more than six or seven years old and RayRay is even younger.
Exactly what does it take???
So now Shannon has the girls four days a week and every holiday. He has them every holiday because his wife doesn’t want them. (Does this sound familiar?) He even has them Mother’s Day because she said that is her chance to get away from them. They appear to be very typical little girls and are well-behaved and well-mannered. Of course, I’m sure they can go at it, just as typical siblings do. Regan is more outgoing than Sydney but both are fairly talkative. In short, adorable.
On our way to the cars, Regan came up beside of me and said, “I’m going home with you.”
“Yep. I’m coming to live with you.”
“But Regan, I don’t have any little girl things. I only have boy stuff.”
“That doesn’t matter. I’ll go to my mommy’s and get all my stuff from there.”
If that doesn’t speak volumes, nothing does.
“Well, I’m not really prepared for anyone to move in right now. I would have to make some plans for that.”
“Oh no, I can come right now.”
“Regan, we can visit each other, maybe at the park Daddy takes you to sometimes.” (They live about ten miles from me, although neither of us knew it.) Shannon intervened and told her she needed to get in the truck. Regan continued to chatter away at him as he closed the door. He turned around and said, “She said she’s not going to visit, she’s coming to live with you.” We laughed and I gave Shannon my number in case he wanted to call and we could take the kids to the park or he just needed an ear to bend. I will give him credit, knowing him growing up as I did, I never thought I would see him so responsible, mature, and, frankly, such a great dad. I know he’s made a lot of sacrifices to be in their lives. Let’s just say, when the price is right…
Exactly, what does it take?
If you would like to see the town I work in, please check out rickleephoto.blogspot.com. He’s a wonderful photographer.
The spot on my dad’s lung is not a tumor. They’re not sure why anything showed up on the x-ray. Maybe some of Trashman’s mom’s luck rubbed off on us.
Smokey is still hanging in there, cranky as ever.
One of our new four week old kittens had a seizure this morning (Nate was hysterical) and appeared to be at least partially paralyzed on his left side. He has since pretty much come out of it and is getting around better.
I saw three rainbows today.
Yet, I’ve been on the verge of tears all day. I can’t get motivated to do anything, barely even beading. I started another project today with four others to do. Sigh. And no inspiration.
I know I’m stressed over the day camp thing with Nate. I also angry about it and the reasons why its hard for me, realizing that had I not been such a dumbass before I wouldn’t be paying off the debt I am now, which means I could afford to send him easily. That sucks. Its over and done but it still sticks in my crawl.
And then there’s the forgotten lower middle class. I’m not poor enough to get any assistance but I’m not rich enough to afford many opportunities for Nate that I want. So, if I were more poor I could get more help and if I were richer I wouldn’t have to worry, so here I sit, the poor middle class.
I should quit my bitchin’. I have a lot to be thankful for. It won’t always be this way. And when I say that, I hope that my situation continues to improve.
When I worry like this, it means I just need to give it over to the Goddess. Sometimes we can try way to hard to control things in our lives. Sometimes we need to remember all we have to do is ask and we shall receive.
This is it. One year ago today I started this blog with a post called Signal Ahead. I had intended this blog to be a place I could post my literary efforts. It became a journey of self-discovery and personal growth. I don’t know how many posts I have, only that it’s a lot.
Before I got ready to write “Clothesline” yesterday I had planned to post about my meeting with the school and my discussion with Nate’s current babysitter. Trust me, school cannot come to an end quick enough for either of us. I applied for a scholarship for Nate to attend the high-end YMCA summer day camp which is directed activities with children in his age group with a theme for each week . Its $500 a month. The deposit for him to attend is $475. We were turned down for the scholarship. Not one dime.
Tears welled in my eyes when they called to tell me. I was able to steady my voice enough to ask about the deposit and when was the last day I could pay it. The woman on the phone didn’t do a very good job of disguising her surprise that I was still interested in the program. This is not a sleep-away camp in the Hamptons, it’s a day camp in West Virginia. Get over yourself lady. I think it was her attitude that since I hadn’t qualified for the scholarship program that I just couldn’t and wouldn’t place him in the program anyway.
I got news for Ms. Priss. This just happens to be a month where I have THREE PAYCHECKS. So, I will have her funky ass deposit. If I didn’t think this program might have the potential of helping Nate a great deal with his social skills and self-esteem I wouldn’t do it. Now, how am I going to pay the $500 a month bill on this? Working a lot. Luckily, pre-camp and post-camp are included in that bill so I’ll have plenty of time to work to keep him there.
As far as Nate’s current babysitter, after June 7th, I hope I never have a reason to ask her to watch my son again. Her girls, especially the oldest, are mean to Nate, gang up on him, and she constantly wants me to believe that her almost four year doesn’t understand that she shouldn’t take things out of his hands and she can swat and smack around on Nate but when he retaliates then he’s the one who has to always give in or make concessions. She says she doesn’t make differences between the kids but I can obviously see that she does.
Its been a long time coming but when she asked me, “Well, were you able to get him into another program, you said you were going to.” It was, again, the tone of her voice, the look on her face, that powerful wave of …. I just don’t like your kid because he doesn’t fit in my box … feeling. I turned back to her and said, “Yes, I did. You won’t have him much longer.”
I try to look at this objectively. Is Nate an asshole kid? I know how he can be. I know his anxiety can make him behave in ways that are irritating at best but he’s not a mean kid. He gets his back up pretty easy when he’s made fun of and I know the babysitter’s daughters, especially the oldest one, get their jabs in behind Mama’s back… because I’ve heard them and then of course, she excuses them for it because of their personalities, yet Nate is made to tow the line? Bullshitbullshitbullshit.
Of course Nate has the Goldilocks Syndrome (sorry Kim), he wants everything just right. At the same time, its sad. I can’t be honest with him when he asks certain questions. This morning he asked why he had to go to Jackie’s instead of his dad’s or Lori’s (his sister’s mom). The truth is, they don’t want him. They’re too busy for him. He’s too much kid to take care of. Its too much trouble. It interrupts their lives. Asking either of them to do anything has become a, “Can’t Lori/Jeff do it?” Yet, they have no trouble expecting me to change plans or assist in watching the kids at any given time.
Last week, the babysitter was off with her youngest daughter’s tonsillectomy so I needed help with after school care and since I had already paid the babysitter once I really couldn’t afford to pay AGAIN. His dad said he would help but then HIS mother got pissy because then she would have to take over turn out for their greyhound kennel so then Jeff said he couldn’t pick Nate up. I then have to leave work, drive the 15 miles to the school, pick him up, drive him to the greyhound farm, and then come back to work.
So, Jeff’s mother is on my shit list. Her snide comments about me have come back around. I guarantee I won’t be jumping up to help her when she comes asking, which she has in the past.
I attended a meeting on Nate’s testing at the high school. This was to get an IQ and to see where he was academically. So, he has a Superior IQ. Of the individual IQ scores, the highest was 125 in abstract reasoning. That helps me understand him better. How he thinks. Naturally, his lowest scores were in anything timed and anything written. I asked about written expression dyslexia, which they danced all around but never quite got their groove on. I asked if there was some way I could help him.
The woman sitting to my right snapped at me.
“You can’t cure him. He has a diagnosis of ADHD. This is a common problem with kids like that.”
I wasn’t sitting close enough to kick her, nor punch her. I looked her in the eyes with my best “fuck you” look until she turned away. I figured it was a waste of my time. I still didn’t find out what I needed to know. I think they just don’t care. Its like they act like they care but then they don’t care. What is up with that? And why do I allow myself to become so frustrated that I don’t force them to explain why he won’t be tested for dyslexia? Because I was distracted and not as prepared as I should have been. I’ll review the criteria again and see if he meets it. Then start over.
I’m glad summer is here.
Thanks for being here. Peace.
There is something therapeutic about hanging clothes out to dry. The repetition of bending and picking and shaking and smoothing wrinkles from the wet material. The acrobatics of plucking the clothespin from its place, either from the clothesline or the hem of my shirt or the edge of the laundry basket, and merging the three, the line, the material, the pin, and moving to the next corner of the jeans or shirt.
The sun is just beginning to hit my yard, although the pin oak on the edge of my neighbor’s property casts a long shadow as its exactly due east. As the sun arcs over the earth today, it, and the light breeze, will evaporate all of the water from the clothes and so the cycle of water to earth will be complete. All I could hear were the birds twittering and nothing else. My shoes and the hem of my pants are damp with dew but methodically I keep putting the clothes on the line.
I miss my big fat cat Smokey. He’s in the house. He’s in renal failure. I think of how he would just pee on the clothes or my leg as he’s old and cantankerous and for some reason has become quite rude. I’m perhaps the most empathic with animals. I tried to get him in the cat carrier and he fought me, which just stressed both of us.
He refused to come in the house last night. He just sat on the porch and drooled because of the mouth ulcers. Perhaps he wanted to lay in the moonlight. The other cats know he’s not well and are scorning him, if not being mean to him, but he came in this morning, or rather I picked him up and brought him in. I’m afraid if someone sees him drooling like that they will think he’s rabid, which I know he’s not. He’s not stressed. For now, he’s doing things his way. When he looked up into my eyes this morning, I saw “good-bye.”
I look over into the neighbor’s yard, which is choked with weeds and baby trees where the seedlings have survived. The trees are not on my property yet their limbs lean over and some, more daring than others, grow through the chain links, their roots frustratingly in someone else’s soil. I can see a thin layer of trash under the bramble. They don’t do anything about it.
I duck under the line and come up too quickly and catch my hair on a clothespin. I scoot the basket along in front of me. The sun is warm on my back, illuminating the hair around the sides of my face. I feel a bit of the material from my pants clinging to my ankle, cold and uncomfortable, but the breeze is in my face. I clip the last pin, push the basket a little further, duck out from under the lines, and walk away. When I look back, the clothes are waving.
For the past three or four weeks, or months, hell, I lose track of time, my neighbors have been coming over and using the phone or sending TLC to get it. Hagar wants it especially first thing in the morning while I’m rushing trying to get ready to go to work and get Nate off to school. The absolute worst time of the day. I’ve heard them banging on the door while I’m in the shower even.
I am a giving person and I try to help my neighbors in any way I can. However, as in the past, they don’t know when to stop. I hadn’t had my new $20 weedeater for ten minutes that Hagar wasn’t running over to ask to borrow it. I shit you not. Last week they didn’t have gas. They have a gas water tank so they want to borrow my big pot to heat water in. I think they have all of my big pots over there already and if I did have one I guarantee in my kitchen, it was probably dirty. So, on pay day they get the gas turned back on – I’m assuming – but then buy some, uhhhhhh, okay, drugs. Painkillers. I know their drug dealer very well and no its not me.
So, I got up late, of course, and I needed to hang clothes out on the line because this may be the only day I get to. I guess TLC came over while I was outside in the backyard because Hagar came over and BANGED on the door like maybe he thought I was asleep or in the shower since he needed to use the phone. So, I come into the living room from putting laundry in the basket to take outside and I open the door and he says, “Lemme have the phone.”
Peeps, that flew all over me. I retorted with, “May you use my phone? Yeess.” Hagar says, “Oh, just forget it. Just forget it. *mumble* *mumble*” I leaned out the door and said, “EXCUSE ME?” He said, “Fuck you!” Fuck me? No, no, no… fuck you Hagar.
Just when did I become his bitch? I didn’t, you see, and therein lies the problem. While it may be irritating that he wants to use the phone every fucking morning, it may be irritating that he wants to use my pots and pans and weedeater, and it may be irritating that J.A. comes over and uses the phone in the evenings, but it never reached any type of level which actually made me mad. Pissed me off? Yeah. Made me mad? No. There is no fine line between me being pissed off and me being angry. It’s a chasm.
I’m mad because Hagar’s reaction to what I said was meant to invoke a response of GUILT in me. GUILT!! The “fine, fine, alright then,” is a manipulative phrase. As if I should feel GUILTY because I expect respect on my own porch and in my own home. I did not take them to fucking raise. I am not anyone’s bitch. They make about 20K more a year than I do. Yeah, they have one more person, yeah, I know their house payment is more than mine but it sure as hell doesn’t equal 20K a year.
Fucking forgive me but if you’re going to spend $45 on illegally begotten painkillers instead of buying time for one of your cell phones, so you can stop harassing your neighbor, and keep your utilities turned on then you may want to politely fucking ASK for something as opposed to demanding it. Then tossing a guilt trip towards me? I may not deserve any fucking humanitarian awards but I’ll be damned if I lay down and be someone’s rug.
I’m no one’s bitch.
Went to get my film developed at my local K-Mart, since Wal*Mart is further away. Nope, they’re sorry, they have already stopped taking film…. huh? Two hours before the store closes??? Fuck dat shit. With only four customers in the store you would think they would be more willing to keep what they got. Because I’m lazy and it was storming I left the film to be developed. Don’t blame me, blame the Blue Light people.
What the fuck is up?? With Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Ritchie? Somebody give those girls a sammich!! A big fat roast beef sammich with cheese and mayo. For cripes sake! Lohan looks like a scarecrow and I thought she was beautiful and voluptuous before. Ritchie, eh, she was a bit pudgy but even a scarecrow looks pudgy beside of Paris Hilton. You can tell that Paris is naturally just thin whereas Lindsay and Nicole look like voluptuous girls trying to be nasty thin. Lohan look downright SICK! Hollywood can suck my stretch marked, saggy, poochy belly!!! And each saggy tit. Being in shape and shaping up are one thing, but gahhhh!!!
Good fucking Lawd!! And God Bless America!!! Do you peeps look through your kids’ baby books so you can compare weight and length at certain ages to your nieces and nephews? I don’t! I can’t even find Nate’s weight chart!! Nor his vaccinations!! And baby book? About 1/8th of the way filled because I was too busy trying to sleep and keep a roof over our head to worry about the first time I could no longer leave him on the couch because he had learned to roll over. I know he did most things on time and he didn’t sleep for two years. That’s its. I got some stuff written down somewhere but really, the only thing I remember is he weighed 8lb. 14 ozs. at birth and he weighed 10 lbs. when he was 10 days old.
Needless to say, I’ve been listening to T-Bird tell me about her nephew who is a few days younger than Annie and how J3 was bigger than Andrew at that age, blah, blah, blah and how J3 is so much bigger than kids his age and how he’s wearing almost the same size clothes Nate is although Nate is two years older. I want to knock the shit out of her. I could literally take my fist and knock her out and tell her to shut the fuck up. She can’t shut up about it.
Those two boys could not be more different in how they are made. Nate is tall, skinny, and has no butt. J3 is tall but broad and has hips, a bubble butt, and thighs. J3 is not fat (although of course she talks about his “baby belly” and I told her that was bullshit, kids don’t have a “baby belly” after the age of two, he’s five, deal with it). I have to buy Nate’s pants to fit his long legs… so he gets 10 Slims. In shorts, he can almost still fit in a 7 but mainly 8’s because of the crotch. Shirts… ehhh… depends, mainly 8’s but he has long arms so they don’t always fit him right. Not to mention his noggin is oddly shaped. He has this huge Anatolian ridge on the back, just like his father. A mark of the Melungeon. I don’t have the ridge, I have the bump.
Anyway, it just irritates the fuck out of me and she’s supposed to have a job interview so maybe she’ll have something else to think about.
The Anatolian thing reminds me of my dad too because he has the ridge. There’s talk in our family about the “Indian princess” which normally means Melungeon heritage. Interestingly enough, after all my research, I just read that the African portion of the Melungeon heritage (besides Northern Africans) are thought to be the Bantu tribe. Cool. I know that my great grandfather was part Indian but had those clear blue eyes, like the Belchers on my mom’s side. I believe he may have been Choctaw but finding information is difficult.
Now I’m hearing about how T-Bird’s sister is a slut. Like this is news. Girl needs to stop thinking with her pussy and get her head out of her ass or his and straighten the fuck up. She’s got a kid to take care of. You know what, that’s something else that irritates me. At least in this area of the world, if you’re young and have a baby then everyone wants to pitch in and help and then the mother, the one who actually spread her legs is still off screwing around. Nothing wrong with helping but I’ve seen way too many young girls 14-21 still off fucking around instead of sitting at home taking care of their kids which just might deter them from wanting to go out and fuck around.
Screw you, I was 25 when I had Nate. I had a college education, I had a job, a home of my own, and I didn’t run around still fucking everything with a stiff cock. Not that they don’t deserve help, because they do, just like I did. More and more though, they’re leaving their kids with grandma, or great-grandma even, or whoever and taking off down the road. That’s not responsibility. If you make ‘em, take care of ‘em. You don’t play at being a parent.
So, now T-Bird is mad because she launched into this whole thing about who had a right to say something about her sister and I was just listening and agreeing and so she got mad because that’s all I was doing. *Yawn* So, am I supposed to write a dissertation about it? I am, she just doesn’t know it. Have you ever met someone with no hobbies?? Let me introduce you to T-Bird. Oh, I’m sorry, her hobby is trying to prove that her son is bigger, stronger, taller, fatter, skinnier, smarter than your kid and mine too.
There’s something else that pissed me off. When I got home from Las Vegas, it was T-Bird who picked me up at the airport. Now, pardon me, but I don’t just jump on a plane and fly to Vegas with a man every day of the week. Really, first time for me. I was a wee bit enthused. Our conversation regarding my weekend went something like this.
“It was a great weekend. He’s a wonderful guy,” *gush enthusiastically*
Then …. nada.
She doesn’t ask if we’ve talked, or how we are. Her mom got peeved at me because I was waiting for a bill to come in to pay to see if I was going to buy a piece of jewelry from this organization she’s working for. Because I was also saving money to see il mio sole again. She made a comment about how I need to pay my bills instead of jetting off around the country. Let me tell ya … my phone, gas, electric, water are paid and stay on, I keep my mortgage up, my car payment, and insurance.
Sometimes its not easy to eek out for extras, like the trips that I’ve been taking and yeah, I need to pay Nate’s school lunch bill, some medical bills and the garbage bill but you know I’m not going to stay chained to my office desk working myself to the grave. I have responsibilities to take care of and I do, for the most part, but I’m going live too. I saw what happened to my dad. I want a happy medium.
So, T-Bird doesn’t inquire into my happiness and it takes me mentioning something for her to perk up but even then she doesn’t ask. I think she would be giddy happy if somehow something happened to fuck this up. In other words, I’m sure that deep inside she would derive some satisfaction from me once again falling on my face. I’m not sure why I’m still friends with her. If you read my series on her then I guess you know part of it but I’m beginning to question why someone who self-describes me as their “best friend,” couldn’t be genuinely happy for me. It must be the lack of drama. Peeps who are truly happy don’t have much drama and if they do, they deal with it much better than peeps who are miserable.
I’m sure some of it is the fact that I’ve gotten to the position where I can do things I want to and I’m not ALWAYS scraping pennies. It still happens at times but that’s life. She doesn’t have much of an eye for color either as she was trying to help me pick out colors for fairies. She doesn’t have much to say about my beading either or my writing nor anything else that means a great deal to me, even Nate. If anyone comes up in conversation its him but always as a comparison feature as opposed to just it being about what a great kid he is and the fact his conceptional reasoning skills far surpass that of most adults. My boy thinks in abstracts.
T-Bird got a little miffed at me because she had made the comment that J3 will have surpassed her in intelligence by Kindergarten. I didn’t really play into the “joke” aspect of it when she said I was in the same boat. I merely replied that even though Nate has an IQ considered “Superior” he still didn’t get his Mama’s brains. So, I can be a bitch. Deal.
I need some water and sleep would be nice. I finished Cybele’s earrings and other than that, I have not beaded. Although… I do have something in mind…
I’ve been quiet and contemplative. Not to mention, busy – busy beading. I find that working with my hands reduces the noise and chatter in my mind. It has a lot to chatter about. I found a pattern for the angel from the same lady who did the witch pattern. Notice there are no arms on the angel but I can put arms on it and something in its hands. I made my first fairy using a combination of both patterns. She’s very cute. I almost had another done but… alas I messed up her wing.
Enough of beads.
I’ve had several reasons for being quiet and contemplative. My dad is one. We still haven’t heard anything. Not like its going to do any good. They will just want to do a biopsy but I do much better when I know for sure what something is and what’s going to be done. My dad and I are cool, so… whatever happens, we’re cool with it. We’ll be okay.
I’ve been running away, mentally, from other things. Other feelings. Questions – questions without answers. (One of my favorite quotes from LOTR) Like all things though, I must eventually pick them apart and examine them, finding what answers I can and accepting the rest as just a part of life. Just a part of my part in this life. Just a part of my growth.
So, that seems simple enough but when I pick my emotions right now, I sit and examine them and through the love and happiness I find anger and sadness. I try not to be but then I realize I’m justified in my anger and sadness and its as much a part of me as the rest. Its sad when you can’t recognize love because its so good, so natural, so calm and quiet and beautiful.
I’m angry because all the love I’ve ever known has been cold and manipulative, painful and anxious. I think back to the times I’ve seen my parents recently, or talked to them on the phone and gotten that anxious twinge, wondering if they were going to find something to complain about or not like the color of my hair. Like yesterday when my mom called, she asked if I was still moving. Now, there’s a loaded question. The answer to that is yes. The real question is “when.” That, I don’t know. Its in the one year to 18 month plan.
Why did she ask? Because I need a building. (That’s what she says) And she was going to buy me a building. Didn’t matter if I wanted one… She was going to buy one. I need all kinds of things. You know, a building and central air/heat (so says she) and the floors sanded (although I would prefer to carpet the living room since its so cold in the winter but of course because Nate is allowed to be a kid and be himself its better if I don’t, I mean, what a waste! So says she.)
Now, where the fuck did this come from? You got me!!! She just calls me out of the blue and tells me all of this stuff that I NEED. What the fuck? No, I NEED to pay Nate’s school lunch bill!!! I NEED $500 a month for summer camp!! I NEED to pay off my car!! I don’t want my parents buying me shit. If I want it, I’ll buy it!!
And then, I told my mom that I had decided I was going to build a bookcase with the wood from The Relic (waterbed). She said, “I thought you had one.” Yeah, but I need ten more!!! I have a gazillion books!! Not to mention all this bead stuff, and CDs and DVDs and videotapes. There were twelve drawers in that waterbed… and they are the PERFECT SIZE for a bookshelves. And the wood is soooo good, much better than any particle board/pressed wood bookcase from Wal*Mart. I’ll get to it… soon. Like everything else. Just think, if I put one piece at a time, it should be done in 30 days…
I digress. I’m avoiding the subject.
Love always felt conditional and I never met the conditions. The bar was always set higher. That’s what I was used to and over this past year, okay 51 weeks – my blogiversary is on the 27th – I’ve learned there is no bar. I refuse to acknowledge any fucking bar. You know I still know that bar is there but ignoring the bar is difficult. Its like Neo in The Matrix… “There is no spoon.”
* Side note – I forgot Neo’s name, so I asked Celti on IM:
inanna1121: What is Keanu Reeves character’s name in the Matrix? Nemo?
inanna1121: Nero? Neno? Nena?
Celti : *Laughing face*
Celti : Neo
Celti : Nemo was the clownfish
inanna1121: OH… Neo… Oh, like NEW… Gotcha!
Celti : *giggling face*
inanna1121: LOL!!! I KNOW!!! But, I thought they might have the same name!!!
Celti : did you take the red pill or the blue pill?
inanna1121: *ROFL* da blue onnnnnnne *
How do you forget there is a spoon? You see the spoon so why is there no spoon? Maybe I should watch the other Matrix movies to find out.
So, dummy me, trying to figure out how I can have all of these strong feelings for il mio amore and not be in love. I realized I had no idea what love really felt like. What do you mean love isn’t synonymous with anxiety? And fear? What’s all this about? Where’s the bar?
Love is patient and kind, not jealous and rude. Love leads me to bear the unbearable, believe the unbelievable, hope where there is none, and endure the endless.
Love has not other desire than to fulfill itself – Khalil Gibran
There is no bar.
Okay, Brighton, love her heart, tagged me… my triad is below.
In regard to my little witches and leprechauns and fairies and suches… and payment. I’m going to try and get a paypal account set up so bear with me.
I’m also going to make a better effort to get my film developed. As in… tonight!!! But, I’m going to get another roll so I can take pictures of what I have and am working on … again… bear with me.
In the meantime, please e-mail me at either email@example.com or firstname.lastname@example.org if you would like to order something. This will help me print and keep track of everything. E-Lo and Brighton, I’ll e-mail you, Trashman, I already have. Leese and Cybele please get back to me on color… otherwise you’re stuck with what I make… heh.
Okay… here’s the triad… and look for pics late tonight…
Three names you go by:
Three screen names that you have had:
Three things you like about yourself:
I don’t give up
Three things you don’t like about yourself:
when I’m snippy with Nate
Three parts of your heritage:
Three things that scare you:
Three of your everyday essentials:
Three things you are wearing right now:
new tank top from the consignment shop
Three of your favorite bands or musical artists (@ the moment):
I’m stuck in the 80’s.
Three of your favorite songs:
Piano Man – Billy Joel
Tainted Love – Soft Cell
The Joker – Steve Miller
Three new things you want to try in the next 12 months:
Making beaded thingies I haven’t made before
learning to knit better
learning to crochet beads
Three things I want in a relationship:
Two truths and a lie:
I have never had sex in a church.
I am a good singer.
I always floss.
Three physical things that attract you to the opposite sex:
sense of humor
Three things you can’t do without:
Three of your favorite hobbies:
Three places you want to go on vacation:
Wisconsin (shut up)/Chicago
Three things you just can’t do:
Make a yo-yo work
clean house consistently
uhhh… hmmm.. stay on one subject
Three things you want to do before you die:
publish a novel/short stories/articles etc.
have more children (whether adopted or natural)
travel, travel, travel
Three celeb crushes:
Orlando Bloom baby!
I am a beadaholic. I can’t help myself. Yes… I spent more money on beads this weekend while in Nashville. (Didn’t get to see AJ… in-laws, outlaws, time constraints… although we did chat) I found a pattern and instructions here to make little witches. I made the first one in a little less than an hour. She’s adorable. I used delica beads and she’s right at an inch tall.
So, I got creative and using the same pattern made a leprechaun. Instead of a broom she’s holding a 4 leaf clover. Instead of delicas (size 11), I used delicas (size 15). The larger the number the smaller the bead. So, my Bonnie Lass is only 3/4 of an inch tall. Yes, I tried taking pictures with my digi but they were not even worth loading onto my computer. Anyway, I also embellished her with bronze delicas (size 11).
Her hat sort of looks like a sombrero or one of those great big hats they wear to the derby. The original hat, before I got creative, was one centimeter across and had 45 beads in it. When I was finished it was two centimeters (approx.) and has 120 beads. Total, she has 300 beads. She’s adorable. I love her. She is mine.
I was going to give her away, but I’ll give another one away. Not her. She’s mine. So, now I’m on a creative miniature kick. I was making Glenda from the Wizard of Oz but forgot she has to be special and have a crown instead of a hat… wench. I’ll have to get even more creative.
I was confusing il mio amore with my family tree when I started talking about some rather unusual traits my maternal family carries. (Shameless bragging ahead) My Ma-Ma could tell if you were pregnant, even if you didn’t know it. Her neighbor had tried for years to get pregnant and had finally given up. She was visiting my Ma-Ma and complained of so generalized aches and pains and my Ma-Ma said, “You’re pregnant!” Back and forth the two ladies went and I believe the neighbor became somewhat miffed and upset because she had tried so hard for so long. Heh. Yeah, she was. Her daughter is about 21 years old now.
My Ma-Ma could also cure thrush. Thrush is a yeast infection of the mouth and throat normally found in babies. The reason she could do this is because she married a man of the same last name. The old wives tale was if you did that, you could cure thrush by blowing in the person’s mouth. Don’t ask me, I just know she could do it. She once cured a baby that modern medicine couldn’t cure.
I also had a great uncle that could cure warts by rubbing on them. He removed a wart from my uncle’s knee that way. A woman I know also had that ability and removed warts from my face by simply rubbing on them. Please don’t ask how this is accomplished. I have no idea. I think it may be particular enzymes in the amino acids secreted in the natural oils on the skin. Didn’t that sound downright scientific? My question is… how did they discover this unusual ability?
In-breeding did us good. My grandparents had an even dozen grandchildren and out of those, five were in gifted and talented classes, seven play musical instruments (or more than one), five are better than passable singers, five are artists, and four creative writers. We’re like an Appalachian Osmond Family. Which is scary. Of my grandparents five daughters, two are artists and three are excellent seamstresses. None of them can carry a tune in a bucket though, well, maybe one. None of them were inclined musically. Weird.
My mom alone can do the following crafts: she paints, mainly still lifes but she is quite good, macrame’, toll painting, cross-stitch, quilting (recently started an advanced class – goody, goody she can help me with mine!), she’s made the embellished photo albums, painted shirts, flower arranging, stained glass, sewing (of course), uhhh, I think that’s it. Oh no wait, there was that whole ceramics phase she went through…
Okay, okay, gotta get some real work done and earn this paycheck. I need to earn the big bucks. Got ANY idea how much summer camp is????? OMG!!! *Sends brain waves ~ ~ ~ buy necklaces from Inanna ~ ~ ~ buy earrings from Inanna ~ ~ ~ buy something from Inanna ~ ~ ~* (Yes, still working on Cybele’s earrings – Jen’s brooch *still missing beads* – and Leese’s necklace, or however it ends up)
Have you ever felt boring? I feel so boring right now. Uninspired. I tried to write an article last night to submit to a magazine and even though I had blogged about it, I could see how much my writing has grown since June of last year. I wanted to embellish it a bit and add some more information. I read some more background material on Jesse James but then fizzled in the third paragraph.
I also have my book proposal half- written, just sitting there. My goal is to have it submitted by the third week. That’s just another week. I have all of the information, just need to finalize it. Isn’t that the damn story of my life. Speaking of…
I have a necklace I’m working on which I have finally decided how I’m going to finish. I’m taking my beads to Nashville. Don’t ask me why. I did tell my cousin I would make her a necklace so here’s a good chance for her to pick out colors or tell me what she wants. The necklace I’m working on now is that Russian Leaves one. I have to say, its going to be gorgeous when I get it done. I’m beading my own beads to go with it too. I can’t wait. Although I do believe I’m going to need an extra tube of beads for each color to finish it. Especially doing the strap the way I want to.
Here’s a story about my dad. He grew up with two brothers and three sisters. My dad was active in sports, as was his older brother, and often games and practice ran late and they came home after my Grandma and Grandpa had gone to bed. One night they were exceptionally hungry and looking in the refrigerator found some potted meat, put it on some bread and ate it.
In the morning, my grandma got up and hollered for the boys. When they came into the kitchen she demanded to know what they had done with the bowl of food in the refrigerator. They responded they thought it was potted meat and had ate it. My grandma told them it was not potted meat, it was a special concoction of dog food that she had made to get her yappy lap dog to eat. It was a favorite story of my Grandma’s.
Hope you guys have a good weekend.